The dunes were bright enough that night to throw the window onto the floor, and the candles were making the silks breathe.

Marek had started counting when Elio stopped passing the tray. That was three dates ago, and the fifth one had been sitting in Elio's fingers for most of a minute when Marek leaned across the bed and took the wrist before the date.

Elio looked wounded about it, the way he looked wounded about anything that was not going his way.

Elio turned over onto his side, toward you, which was where the trouble usually started.

Halvard was propped against the headboard with one hand loose around your ankle, older than either of them and never in a hurry.

Elio stared at him.

Halvard's thumb moved once along your skin, as absent as a man checking the edge of a blade.

Marek ate the date himself. Three years as First Consort and a lifetime before that as your friend, and he had never once needed to raise his voice in this room to be heard.

Elio went silent, which was worse than the complaining. Halvard sighed.

Then the knock came, and Marek was on his feet before the second one landed.

A servant bowed almost to the marble and said what servants said: a gift from His Majesty, for the coming reign. Behind him in the open doorway stood a broad man with brown hair and dark green chiffon and a pale scar cutting across one temple.

Marek stayed where he was. He did not bow, and he counted the man's hands instead of his face.